


All Creatures That Have the Breath of Life

by Elsajeni



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mouth-to-Mouth, Near Drowning, Noah's Ark, Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), an early and temporary version of the Arrangement, let's become aware of some complicated feelings and then repress them for 5000 years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 11:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: Aziraphale is lifting off before he's thought about it. His wings are wet, approaching sodden, and he's not at all confident he'll keep aloft long enough to reach the drifting winged body, never mind hauling a half-drowned angel back to the Ark. But... well, you have to try, don't you?Closer up, when he can see the figure as more than just a shadow against the water, he realizes he's wrong again— the spreading wings are black-feathered. No bird, and also no angel.Black-feathered wings, and a black robe on a long, lean frame, and long red hair drifting loose in the current.Oh. Oh,no.In which an angel (perhaps unwisely) rescues a demon, (probably unwisely) reaches a temporary truce with him, and (definitelyunwisely) contemplates his own feelings.





	All Creatures That Have the Breath of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Beta credit to [forthegreatergood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood) and [hubblegleeflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower) \-- thank you, pals! <3 (Glee, in particular, pointed out the relevant verse from Genesis and made me look much cleverer than I am.)

Aziraphale comes in for an awkward landing on the prow of the Ark. He doesn't use his wings much these days, and angels, unlike ducks, aren’t built for the aquatic lifestyle; the oil in his feathers is no match for the driving rain. Between worn-out flight muscles and wet feathers, he's glad to land now, while he still has a choice in the matter.

He looks out at the rising waters and watches the shadows in the depths, trying to think of them as just... shapes. Not houses, markets, inns. Not animals. Not... not the _people_.

There's a great winged shadow floating near the surface— some enormous bird, Aziraphale supposes, and he feels desperately sorry for it. He'd thought the big seabirds might make it, although Noah had packed pairs of them into the hold, too, just in case.

Then a wave rolls it, and he gapes in sudden horror. It's no _bird_.

He's lifting off before he's thought about it. His wings are wet, approaching sodden, and he's not at all confident he'll keep aloft long enough to reach the drifting body, never mind hauling it back to the Ark. But... well, you have to try, don't you?

There's a sharp wind blowing up, and Aziraphale has to battle it to make any headway. _Part of the Plan?_ he thinks sourly, and immediately pulls away from the thought, tries to see the good in it instead— it'll mean he has a tailwind on the way back, at least, which should make it easier getting back to the Ark with a half-drowned angel in his arms.

Closer up, when he can see the figure as more than just a shadow against the water, he realizes he's wrong again— the spreading wings are black-feathered. No bird, and also no angel.

Black-feathered wings, and a black robe on a long, lean frame, and long red hair drifting loose in the current.

Oh. Oh, _no_.

It takes him three tries, swooping low over the surface of the water, to get a grip on Crawley's arm and enough upward momentum to haul the demon out of the water, and then a long, perilous moment in midair to figure out how to actually _carry_ him. Crawley's heavy, for as thin as he is— some of that is his waterlogged wings, Aziraphale supposes, though he also can't stop thinking _dead weight_— and he seems to be built entirely of elbows. Eventually Aziraphale manages to loop an arm around his narrow waist and drape Crawley's arms over his own shoulders, and that feels stable enough that he can get some height and start back toward the Ark.

He lands on the deck in an undignified heap, with Crawley slumped in his lap. For a moment he rests there, trying to catch his breath— between the rain and the buffeting wind and the added weight of a demon slung from his shoulders, it's a wonder he made it back at all. But Crawley's still heavy against him, unmoving, and Aziraphale doesn't know if he's all right, if he's even alive...

He shifts his grip, lowering Crawley carefully to the decking, and gets a look at him. The demon is limp and still, eyes closed, streaming hair tangled over his face. His face is too pale, ghostly, blue-tinged, and Aziraphale is pretty certain he isn't breathing. He feels a stab of panic, and tries to force himself to think rationally. What can he do?

Maybe he shouldn't interfere. Maybe it's the wrong thing to do. Crawley is a demon, after all. The flood's whole purpose is to wipe out sin on the earth, and Crawley's whole purpose _is_ sin. Maybe this, too, is part of the Plan, that those few demons walking the earth will be swept away along with everything else. And anyway, discorporation isn't _permanent_; he wouldn't exactly be sentencing Crawley to death, just to inconvenience. Just to spend who knows how long in Hell, waiting around to be issued a new body and sent back.

At the same time... he doesn't have any actual _instructions_ regarding what to do with half-drowned demons. And it seems cruel to do half the job, fish Crawley out of the water and then just leave him. And maybe it's spending so much time among humans, or maybe just that after a thousand years of it he _likes_ being embodied, but Aziraphale has picked up a sort of horror of discorporation. He wouldn't like to go this way, if it were him, and aren't they supposed to do unto others?

And it must hurt. And— he thinks of struggling to fly through the storm, imagines losing the battle against the wind and rain, tumbling out of control and knowing there's no safe landing below him— and Crawley must have been frightened.

The wind gusts, tugging at Aziraphale's wings and jarring him back to the present. He's wasting time. Dithering. And Crawley is _so_ pale, so still, entirely unmoving but for the way his head lolls with the rocking of the deck...

Maybe it's too late already. (Another little flare of panic; another deep breath to try to quell it.) But he knows how this works, sort of; as long as there's a spark of life in the corporation, you can stay with it, hold onto it. He raises a hand to Crawley's jaw, and— yes, he can feel a pulse there still, faint and unsteady but present. Not too late, then, if Aziraphale can just get him to breathe again.

He doesn't think he can just _heal_ a demon's corporation, as he might a human. No telling what effect it might have on the occult energies that bind Crawley to his body; he's afraid he'd heal the flesh but exorcise the actual demon. But then, this doesn't call for that sort of healing, exactly. No bones to knit or torn flesh to mend; he just has to find the bits that aren't working but should be, muscles and reflexes, and sort of... remind them.

Aziraphale lays one spread hand across Crawley's ribcage, and concentrates, feeling out the contours of organ and muscle beneath. Lungs, diaphragm— yes, a nudge just _there_—

Under his hand, Crawley's chest stirs, and then spasms; the demon chokes and heaves, once, bringing up an enormous quantity of water, and then goes still again. Unmoving, unbreathing.

"Oh, come on," Aziraphale mutters desperately. But it's _nearly_ worked, that's something, isn't it? Maybe if—

He doesn't think about it, really, just bends down and presses his lips to Crawley's slack mouth and breathes into him. At the same time he focuses as much divine power as he thinks he can get away with and _pulls_, drawing the breath to where it's needed before releasing it.

Nothing, this time. Crawley's chest rises with the breath, falls again, and is still. Unbearably, unnaturally still.

Aziraphale gathers himself to try it again, thinking _please, I don't want to explain this to Gabriel, I really don't know how I'll explain that I spent a month's worth of miracles to save you and didn't even manage it, please, I don't want you to go_— Crawley's lips are cold against his, Crawley's body limp and unresponsive beneath his hand, and he breathes for Crawley and imbues the breath with enough divine force that someone's sure to check up on the report and _prays_—

Crawley shudders and spasms again, spits a fountain of water into his face— and then _gasps_, deep and painful-sounding. Aziraphale sags in relief.

Blessedly, Crawley keeps coughing this time, keeps breathing. He keeps spitting out more water, too, and Aziraphale goes to haul him upright, worried he'll choke. At his touch, Crawley's golden eyes fly open, wide and panicked, and his hands snake out to clutch at Aziraphale's robe.

"It's all right," Aziraphale says hurriedly, as Crawley finds a grip and claws his way up, coughing and retching. The demon's in such a state, though, Aziraphale doubts he really hears it. Crawley's breathing in desperate, heaving gasps, and he's clinging to Aziraphale's robe like— well, like a lifeline, and that makes sense, doesn't it? It must be the last thing he remembers, thrashing for the surface, grasping for any faint hope of rescue and finding nothing.

Aziraphale shivers at the thought, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to reach up and push Crawley's sopping hair back from his face, to wrap a steadying arm around his shoulders. "It's all right," he says again. "Crawley, easy, you're all right. Just try and breathe."

Crawley shudders against him. He starts to say something, interrupted by another pained fit of coughing. Aziraphale keeps a grip on him and waits for him to get his breath; he's expecting _what happened_, or _where am I_, or perhaps, at a slim outside chance, _thank you_.

What Crawley eventually manages, in a rough, strained voice, is, "Let go of me."

Aziraphale looks down at Crawley's hands, still clutching fistfuls of his robe. He considers pointing it out— _you're the one holding onto me, you know_— but he doesn't actually _want_ Crawley to let go. He suspects he'd just collapse again, for one thing.

"When I think you can sit up on your own," he says instead. "Here, put your wings away, they're not doing you any good in this weather."

"Not as if they can get any wetter," Crawley rasps. But he does fold his wings behind him, and then, in a complicated movement, out of sight entirely. With their weight off him he straightens up a bit, looking around as if to get his bearings. Aziraphale can see him taking in the pouring rain, the barnyard smell drifting up from belowdecks, the waves, and suddenly his expression goes hard and closed-off. "We're on that boat."

"The Ark," Aziraphale corrects. "Yes. I—" He hesitates, not sure how to finish the sentence; every line of Crawley's face says _tread carefully there, angel_. "You were in the water," he finishes instead.

Crawley raises an eyebrow and looks down at his own dripping robes. "You don't say."

"Yes, well." It's probably a bad idea to say _you gave me an awful fright_, he decides. "Just— just rest here for a bit, all right? Get your breath back."

Crawley looks briefly mutinous, and Aziraphale braces for an argument— or for him to simply bolt, try to take to the sky again, never mind that he'd just end up back in the water. But he looks back out at the roiling flood and subsides, shoulders sagging.

"Sure," he says quietly, thinly. "Sure. Where else am I going to go?"

Aziraphale wraps his arm a little tighter around Crawley's shoulders, pulling him close so his face is shielded from the rain. Crawley allows it, which only shows how exhausted he must be; he'd argue, Aziraphale feels certain, if he weren't weakened by near-discorporation.

Slowly, very slowly, Aziraphale can feel Crawley relax against his side, the tense energy with which he normally holds himself easing. Eventually he seems to doze off, his head nodding forward to rest on Aziraphale's shoulder, the rhythm of his breathing reassuringly slow and even. Aziraphale strokes his hair again, gently, and looks around to see if there's any chance of the two of them getting out of the rain.

There's a dry— well, nowhere's dry, but there's a _less wet_ patch of decking up against the cabin wall, protected by overhanging eaves. Aziraphale gathers Crawley into his arms and shuffles awkwardly across the deck, tucking away his wings to settle down with his back against the wall and Crawley curled against his chest.

Just so he can keep an eye on him, of course. He's brought a demon onto the Ark, which he probably, in a technical sense, was not supposed to do; it's his responsibility to see that Crawley doesn't get up to any trouble.

And maybe, just a little, so he can be _absolutely sure_ Crawley's all right, that he's still breathing in that steady, drowsy rhythm.

Now that he has a moment to sit quietly, it occurs to Aziraphale that he's very tired, too. Fighting his way through the storm, working miracles left and right, the panic of those too-long moments when Crawley wouldn't _breathe_— it's taken it out of him. He bends reality around them a little, just enough to make sure that, should one of Noah's sons walk by, they won't be noticed. Then he tips his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes, letting himself rest just for a moment, soothed by the steady sound of the rain and the warm weight of Crawley leaning against him.

He's woken up, some time later, by a sound he can't place at first— there's a moment of pure confusion, and then, as the disorientation of sleep clears and he remembers where he is, a moment where he thinks perhaps it's one of the animals belowdecks.

Then Crawley shivers against him and makes the same soft, pained sound again, and in an instant Aziraphale is fully awake, all his attention on the demon still asleep in his arms.

"Crawley?" No answer; Crawley trembles, but doesn't wake. Aziraphale tightens his arm around the demon's shoulders and shakes him gently. "Crawley, wake up. You're dreaming."

Crawley mumbles something he can't make out, and then jolts awake with a gasp, once again grabbing at Aziraphale's robe like it's a lifeline, like he's dragging himself to safety by it. Aziraphale lets himself be pulled closer, wraps both arms around Crawley. "Hush, you're all right. You're perfectly safe."

"The water," Crawley gasps into his shoulder.

_Only a dream_, Aziraphale wants to assure him, but of course it wasn't, was it? Not _only_ a dream. Instead he says, "I know. But you're all right now."

Slowly, a fraction at a time, Crawley's grip on his robe relaxes. Eventually he sits up straight and shrugs off Aziraphale's arm, and Aziraphale gets the message: _that didn't happen, angel_.

He clears his throat and says, "I hope you got some rest, at least."

"A little," Crawley says, with an uncomfortable-looking shrug. Then he casts Aziraphale a sideways glance and adds, "No thanks to you, I might add. You snore like anything."

He sounds more like his normal self— still a little hoarse, but his voice is steady, and when Aziraphale turns his head to look at him, there's a wicked little smile stealing across his face.

Right: _that didn't happen_. "Nonsense," Aziraphale says with dignity. "I don't sleep. Virtue is ever-vigilant."

"Oh, of course. That's the first thing I thought when I heard the snoring, was how vigilant it sounded."

Aziraphale gives him what's meant to be a stern look, though he knows there's a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Never mind that. How do you feel now?"

"Alive," Crawley says, "which I admit is an improvement." There's a long pause, and then he adds, almost reluctantly, "I suppose you expect me to be grateful."

"Of course not," Aziraphale says, probably too quickly. He feels a bit stung, both by the comment and by the realization, as soon as Crawley says it, that it's true. Not that it's _why_ he leaped to rescue Crawley— he isn't sure himself why he did it— but that he didn't like the way Crawley looked at him, the last time they met, before the rain started. That he's been hoping this would put him back into the demon's good— do demons have good graces? That it would raise him back up a bit in Crawley's estimation, at least.

"Ah, I see." Crawley gives him a sardonic smile. "Not from a demon. Couldn't expect any such fine feelings from such as me."

"I didn't expect anything at all," Aziraphale says, cross and bewildered— they'd been getting along, hadn't they? Why does Crawley have to keep _needling_ at him? "I did it because it was right. I'm an angel, that's how it works."

Crawley snorts. "Of course. How _holy_ of you." He pronounces 'holy' as if it's a profanity, as if the taste of it makes him want to spit. "Tell me something. How many humans could you have saved, in the time you wasted on me?"

Aziraphale flinches. He wishes he hadn't; Crawley's skilled enough at finding his weak spots as it is, he doesn't need a visible sign that he's hit the mark. He forces his voice steady and says, "Crawley, please, let's not do this again."

"How many, angel?" Crawley presses.

Aziraphale shakes his head sharply and looks away. He fixes his gaze on the deck; there's a knothole in one of the boards, and he stares at it, wondering what sort of creature is penned beneath it, whether it can see a little gleam of light when it looks up. More likely it's just getting dripped on, poor wretched thing.

"One at least, surely. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but all the difference in the world to that one human." Beneath the faint lingering rasp in Crawley's voice, Aziraphale can hear the smooth tongue of the serpent, and the dangerous edge half-concealed in the silken words. "And I must have been hard to carry, big as I am and with my wings out besides. Kids— babies, even— you could have brought two or three, at least, don't you think?"

"Crawley, _please_," Aziraphale says again, in a very low voice. "Just leave it. I know what you're doing."

"What, talking sense?"

"Trying to tempt me." He shoots Crawley a sideways look. "I haven't forgotten the Garden, you know. You're trying to... to plant doubt in my mind, make me question. To shake my faith in the Great Plan."

"Ah." Crawley's silent for a long moment.

Then he leans in close, conspiratorial, and asks, "Is it working?"

Aziraphale shuts his eyes, tightly, and says for the third time, "_Please_."

He's surprised at his own voice; it sounds raw, tense. Like he's on the verge of tears.

Like he's on the verge of listening to a demon.

He risks a glance at Crawley. The demon looks surprised, too— didn't expect his bit of temptation to go so smoothly, Aziraphale supposes.

Odd, then, that he doesn't really look pleased or smug or prideful. Just surprised, and a little sad.

The silence is stretching on for too long, making the creaking of the Ark's boards seem loud by contrast. Aziraphale, feeling compelled to fill it, says quietly, "I told you. I'm not consulted on this sort of thing. And you know I can't disobey, and Her instructions were _very_ clear. None of them but Noah and his family."

"You don't like it any better than I do," Crawley says. It's not a taunt, as Aziraphale might have expected, but said softly, uncertainly.

"It's not for me to like it. Or understand it, even."

"If you say 'ineffable' I'm jumping overboard."

Despite himself, Aziraphale manages a half-smile. "I'll only come fish you out again, you know. Anyway, that's all it was. I had my instructions, about the humans, and I had to do as I was told. But no one said anything about demons, and I thought— I thought at least I could—"

"All right," Crawley says abruptly. "All right, I'll leave it alone, don't— you don't have to explain yourself to me."

Aziraphale looks at him suspiciously.

Crawley puts his hands up, signaling truce with apparent sincerity. "Just this one time," he says. "No more... sneaky questions, that sort of thing. In fact, no more tempting at all 'til we get off this boat. Demon's honor."

He extends one hand, to shake on it. Aziraphale regards it warily.

"I'm _certain_ I shouldn't make any sort of bargain with you," he says, letting _demon's honor_ pass without comment.

"Hardly a _bargain_." Crawley rolls his eyes. "More of a professional courtesy, that's all."

After another moment, when Aziraphale still hasn't moved, he adds in an undertone, "I don't like to carry debts, angel. Anyway, you did save my wretched hide, you ought to get _something_ out of it. Waste of effort otherwise."

Aziraphale frowns and takes his extended hand— not shaking it, but enfolding it between his own hands. "Crawley, _stop it_. Don't say such things."

Crawley raises his eyebrows. "What, about debts? Don't like to be reminded that you did me a favor?"

"I don't like you calling it a waste." Without really meaning to, he raises one hand to Crawley's hair again, runs his fingers absently through the damp tangles. "Saving you, I mean. It's not a waste. It was worth the trouble."

Maybe it's the hand in his hair, or maybe it's something Aziraphale's said; whatever the reason, Crawley seems to suddenly realize how close they are. He pulls his hand from Aziraphale's grip as if burned and sits back, as far as he can get without leaving the shelter of the eaves. Far enough that he's out of reach.

"There _will_ be trouble," he says after a moment, his face guarded. "About all of this. Bringing me aboard the Ark, and all."

Aziraphale frowns, feeling a little stab of pity. Hell must be even stricter with its operatives than Heaven, for Crawley to be worried about consequences just for... what, being rescued? Something he didn't have any say in, but it's brought him into too-close contact with an angel, and maybe that's enough. "Trouble for you? I don't see why. Anyway, can't you just tell them you snuck aboard to cause mischief?"

Crawley scoffs. "No, for _you_, idiot. Rescuing a demon. Not the sort of thing your side expects of you, is it?"

_Oh_. "Surely they do," Aziraphale says stoutly. "Aren't we called to be merciful to all of Her creations? And whatever else you are, you're still that."

To be honest, though, the question has been preying on his mind a bit. There are going to be questions about this, he knows, and what _is_ he going to tell Gabriel? _Well, it's complicated, you see, it's not as if I know him well at all, but everything is more interesting when he's around, even if it's only twice in a thousand years. He's the only other person I've ever met who looks at the humans as if he's happy to see them, as if they're more than just... game pieces to be moved about._ Yes, that's sure to go over well. Would they pull him off Earth for good, or only for a few millennia?

Crawley gives him a skeptical look. "Really. Come on, Serpent of Eden and all? Corrupter of humankind? You ought to be delighted to be rid of me."

"Of course I wouldn't be," Aziraphale says. It comes out a little more heated than he meant it to.

"_Your side_ would be. And here you are, going to all this trouble to see that I stick around."

"Well." Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. He's becoming aware, the more he thinks about it, that the real answer might be something closer to _of course he's the Enemy, but he was so kind to me that first day, when I was worried I'd done the wrong thing, I don't think he really can be all bad— and he's the only person I know who looks at me as if he's happy to see me—_

It's a dangerous line of thought. He shies away from it and says, "Look, we've got forty days and forty nights of this coming. And there are so few humans on board, I can't pass myself off as one of them, and you know what it's like talking to them as yourself, it's all cowering and 'be not afraid' and— _you_ know."

"In a manner of speaking," Crawley agrees. "My lot generally skip the 'be not afraid' bit."

"Of course. Anyway, with you here at least we can— I don't know, catch up. Play dice. _Something_. Think how bored I would have been otherwise."

Crawley gives him a long look. "You're suggesting," he says, "that rescuing me was a selfish act."

"Well, not entirely," Aziraphale admits. "But yes. That I gain something by it. So there's no need for any silly talk about debts, and absolutely no call to keep saying it was a waste."

He doesn't think Crawley is convinced. But the rain is still sheeting down, and after all, where else is he going to go? Eventually the demon sits back against the wall beside him and says, "Yes, all right. Fair enough. I _am_ more entertaining than hanging around a bunch of humans."

"Good," Aziraphale says, relieved, and summons a _senet_ board and a handful of dice. "And no tempting, remember, you did promise."

"Oh, angel," Crawley says with a sly grin, taking the dice from his hand. "You never shook on it."

**Author's Note:**

> _Genesis 7:15 - "Pairs of all creatures that have the breath of life in them came to Noah and entered the ark."_


End file.
